Teresa of the New World

by Sharman Apt Russell

  Now a man’s body blocked the back doorway. He spoke in Spanish, “What? What do you want?”

  Teresa shook her head. She didn’t want anything.

  “You can’t help her,” the man said as he went to the woman and rearranged her limbs. Patiently he folded the dead child back into her arms. He turned and stared at Teresa, his eyes focused on something else. Suddenly he sounded angry. “I am taking care of her. Are you a priest?”

  Still shaking her head, Teresa moved slowly to the open back door, ducked, and was out and walking fast past a ramada of ocotillo branches, long limbs of a spidery cactus with needle-sharp thorns and red flowers. At a wooden post, a horse stood with a bloody muzzle where the halter had cut his skin. The ground around the horse’s hooves was pawed bare from his attempts to break free, but the rope tied to his halter and the post had knotted firm and held fast. As she rushed by, Teresa glanced over. She could count the animal’s ribs.

  Unexpectedly, the gelding spoke: help me.

  Teresa was in a hurry to get away from the crazy Spanish slave hunter. But when the gelding’s image and voice formed in her mind, she stood still. It had been a long time. She had stopped speaking and stopped listening, and the plants and animals had stopped speaking and listening to her, too. The world had gone silent. Still, now, she could hear this horse. Something had happened when she was sick and feverish. A bar on the door had fallen away. The door had opened a crack, and now the door was swinging wide.

  Inside the house, the horse’s master tended his sick wife and dead child. He had forgotten everything else. He had abandoned everything else. He had left his horse to die of thirst and hunger.

  Help me, the gelding repeated. He loved me once. He cared for me.

  The animal grieved for his master’s sanity.

  I need water! Suddenly the horse shied, spraying drops of blood and mucus, bursting to life. Untie me! Untie me now!

  And Teresa did, as quickly as she could, although the rope had been pulled and tightened so fast to the post that her fingers were soon bruised. When the brown horse was finally free, he trotted off in another burst of energy, the rope trailing and jerking behind like a frenzied snake. Teresa knew the animal was rushing to the nearest stream outside the village. She followed him there, running for the first time in years, the saddlebag bouncing against her back.

  After he had finished drinking, the gelding flared his nostrils and swung his head toward her, ears flattened. What do you want? the horse asked sullenly, echoing his master.

  Teresa studied the well-proportioned body with its deep chest and long neck. What did she want? she asked herself. When she concentrated, she could catch more scattered images of the gelding’s life. She could see the Spanish hidalgo, outfitted in metal armor, so proud of himself and his handsome mount. They had been in battle together. They had killed men together. They had crossed the ocean together. Every night, the man rubbed the horse and gave him grain. He rubbed the long neck and whispered fond words.

  The horse missed his master and ached to go back to him.

  You can’t go back, Teresa said—although not out loud. He won’t even see you. He has forgotten you.

  Yes, the horse agreed, still sullen. He is not my master anymore. He has become unhinged, crazed with grief and sorrow. In the grip of madness, he has betrayed his vows to himself and the captain he followed here for gold and silver, even as death has betrayed him.

  Teresa blinked. The flavor of this animal’s mind was distinct. She had not heard this kind of speech for some time. In the kitchen, they spoke less pompously. Even Fray Tomás had been a simple man of simple words.

  I want you to take me north, she said. I have a long way to go, and it will take me weeks if I have to walk.

  The horse shook his mane and rolled his eyes. Only my master rides me!

  Teresa knew that tone, too. The pride, the arrogance.

  Death has betrayed your master, she reminded the animal. He is not the same man. And I need you. I have a task for you.

  You are a female, the horse protested. You are an Indian.

  But he seemed unsure of himself.

  How dare you? Teresa shrilled in return, trying to sound haughty. My great-grandfather was Pedro de Vera, the conqueror of the Grand Canary! My father was Cabeza de Vaca, treasurer of the Pánfilo de Narváez expedition! I come from a line of noblemen, hidalgos, and conquistadors.

  The horse was impressed. But still reluctant.

  I don’t mean right away, Teresa said more kindly. You should graze first. You should rest first. I’ll wait here, and then we will walk on together. We will go slowly as you regain your strength and calm.

  Shaking his ears, the horse blew air through his nostrils and bent to pull at the sweet grass by the stream. Teresa moved away, breaking the connection between them. She wanted to think and plan alone. She coveted the gelding’s deep chest and muscular legs. She coveted his ability to walk without tiring, twenty leagues a day. She felt the need to hurry, the wise woman calling to her, the wise woman who wanted to see her, who had something to tell her. What you have lost will be restored to you.

  Teresa scratched at the remaining spots on her stomach. It would be easy enough for the horse to go wild in the orchards full of ripening fruit and fields full of ripening maize. She had to convince the animal now, while he was still tame.

  She crept closer and stooped for the rope trailing in the grass.

  What are you doing? the horse jerked.

  Nothing, Teresa soothed. I am going to loop this over your neck and knot it so it doesn’t catch on a bush. I am going to wet my cotton shirt, like this, and wash the cuts on your face.

  And you will groom me later? the horse asked. He shivered, despite the heat.

  I will make a comb out of sticks, Teresa promised. Eat now, and I will wash you, and I will groom you.

  Huffing, confused, the horse dropped his head.

  They walked on, the gelding moving slowly, still weak. When the first stars began to appear in the sky, Teresa found a place to camp, and that night she used the tinderbox, striking the flint hard against steel. The sparks caught in the tiny piece of oiled cloth and burned red. Quickly she put the cloth in a bird’s nest with bits of her hair and blew—gentle puffs. Soon she had a fire to admire as she ate her dried jerky. The horse seemed used to the flames and came close as if to watch them, too. Teresa made a bed of grass for herself, while the horse said he would sleep standing up.

  What should I call you? Teresa asked.

  My master had a name for me, the horse flared. No one but he can use it. You can call me Horse.

  That’s fine, Teresa said.

  You are not my master, the horse insisted.

  I know, Teresa soothed him.

  She wondered if she should tie the animal up for the night, if he would allow her to do that. She decided he would not. Not yet.

  She lay down to sleep.

  Did you hear that noise? Horse asked in a few moments, pricking his ears forward.

  It’s only a skunk, Teresa mumbled. There are so many animals now, everywhere.

  I think this one is watching us, Horse whispered. This one has been following us.

  Following us? Teresa tried to peer into the darkness, blacker against the light of the campfire. Suddenly she had the same feeling, as though it had been passed to her from the cautious animal. The horse ninnied, a sharp eerie sound. Teresa felt eyes on her skin. Yes, Horse was right. Someone was following them.

  7

  Teresa and the horse stayed awake, waiting, anticipating, while nothing happened, nothing at all. She fed the fire until it blazed high, yellow and orange flickering against the starry night. By the time the flames had died down again, her eyes were drooping. At last, they both slept, woke to the broad light of day, ate some food, and walked on. Teresa did not try to ride the horse, who was still weak and suspicious of her. Also she was a little scared. She had never ridden an animal before and wondered if she would fall off, the first t
ime and every time.

  They crossed a second stream, where yellow flowers bloomed along the bank. Big slow fish glided in a pool sheltered by the green leaves of cottonwoods, and Teresa thought of stopping to make a net of yucca rope—catching the trout, building another fire, roasting and eating the flaky white meat. Her appetite was returning, her fever completely gone, only sprinkles of rash on her thighs and stomach. Fish sounded good. A stew of rabbit meat and squash and beans sounded good. Wild duck sounded good.

  The horse had already begun to graze. Teresa gave the gelding a few moments while she squatted by the water, one hand on her cheek, thinking of nets and traps. When she was small, she had seen the Indians of many different tribes make such things. It would take time and effort to learn to make them herself. But that’s what she would do, she decided. She would make a net.

  I’d like some grain, the horse said mournfully.

  Of course, Teresa said. But I think we should avoid the villages for now.

  She didn’t say why. The horse already knew.

  Someone might desire me, the gelding agreed, and not all masters are good ones. Most are not. I have seen great cruelty among those who follow their captains to war and conquest. I have seen men beat their mounts until the blood ran. I have seen men take their weapons and hack each other to death for the metal they carry in their pockets or the chance to become more powerful and wear clothes of a different color.

  What else have you seen? Teresa asked, interested. She flicked a pebble into the water, watching to see if a fish would rise.

  Horse raised his head instead of answering. Teresa’s skin prickled, too. They were still being followed. Something watched them from the bushes by that line of trees, something clever and patient. It would be gone by the time she ran to beat through the thorny branches. Even now, it was creeping away.

  What could they do but walk on?

  It’s a wolf, Teresa guessed.

  No, Horse said. I don’t smell wolf.

  Later in the day, to pass the time, he told her about his life in Spain—how he had been born in a stable in the city of Granada. His mother also had been a mercenary’s horse, and from the start, her colt was meant to be the same. His master had trained him with gentle firmness, and while they were both young, they had gone to fight in a place where the people spoke strangely and smelled bad.

  The Italian wars, Teresa thought. Like the Italians with their feuds and labyrinthine strategies . . .

  When they returned to Granada, the horse and his master had a few glorious months of resting and eating before all the money was spent on grain and apples, gambling and women. Then there was nothing to do but sign up for another war or expedition. This time, his master chose a ship bound for the New World.

  The stories were familiar to Teresa, although told from a different view. The horse remembered stables, not churches, and silver bridles, not inlaid writing desks. He didn’t groan about fruit tarts and meat pastries but oats sweetened with honey and apricots from a tree in his master’s garden. Still, it was the same Spain that Teresa had heard so much about as a child: the fine clothes and dramatic processions in the cobbled streets, the smell of incense and baking bread, the burning of heretics and unbelievers.

  After the horse and his master had crossed the ocean—and that was a miserable voyage, the horse said—they had to pass through Mexico City, the former capital of the proud and ferocious Aztecs. The horse’s master had chattered with excitement. Clearly this town had once rivaled the great cities of Spain, as grand as Granada or Seville, and both horse and master marveled at the winding streets and buildings rising into the sky. Of course, many temples and public houses had been destroyed when the famously lucky Hernán Cortés and his five hundred men had conquered the Aztecs with the help of many thousands of Indian allies, the help of sarampión and viruela. But new churches and mansions were being built every day using the labor of slaves. As the horse had neared the center of town, the marketplace could be heard a league off, a roar of people shouting and selling meat, vegetables, herbs, dyes, cloth, silver, gold, parrots, and the prized blue and green quetzal feather.

  The horse knew some good gossip, too, for the New World was a small world for Spanish hidalgos, and everyone talked about each other’s affairs. He had heard, for example, what had happened to the Moor, the man Teresa’s father had called Esteban, who had been sold to the Governor to lead an expedition north. The expedition’s task was to discover the Seven Cities of Gold. As always, the Moor was the one who went on ahead, talking to the tribes and shaking his painted gourds. The story went that his claims became more and more extravagant until finally, in one village, he told the Indians that he was a god as well as a healer. Properly impressed, his hosts tested his divinity by cutting him up and eating the pieces. The Moor died bloodily, and the rest of the expedition scurried home with their tails between their legs. Even so, Horse said, the Governor still believed that the north was full of villages with streets paved of gold. Even so, the Spanish dreamed of extraordinary wealth, riches beyond imagination.

  Teresa listened but felt nothing. Her hard heart protected her. Casually, she found herself asking: have you heard of a man called Andrés Dorantes?

  Naturally, of course, Horse said. Dorantes and his famous companion Cabeza de Vaca had been lost in the most heathen wilds of the New World for eight years and then rescued by the Governor himself. Later the men had taken separate ships home to Spain, and Dorantes’s vessel had proved unseaworthy. Limping back to Vera Cruz, he had been sent off by the Viceroy of Mexico City to subdue the Indians in the province of Jalisco. There he married a rich Spanish widow with whom he had three sons.

  And Alonso del Castillo? Teresa wondered idly.

  Another companion of the famous and celebrated Cabeza de Vaca, Castillo also did not go to Spain but only accompanied his friends to Vera Cruz in order to see them finally gone. He, too, had married a rich Spanish widow and was given half the Indian rents in a small southern town. No one heard much news from him, for he led a dour and solitary life. People said he was very religious.

  And Cabeza de Vaca? Teresa finally murmured. What news of her father?

  Like everyone who was anyone, the horse’s master had discussed the conquistador who had written a famous book as a report to the King of Spain. Her father was a refined and ambitious gentleman with an influential wife. On her husband’s return from his adventures in the most heathen wild, this influential wife had convinced the King to name Cabeza de Vaca as Governor of the Río de la Plata from Peru to the Straits of Magellan. With that title, he had sailed again from Spain to the New World. At the capital of his province, he pacified the Indians, forbade their slavery, defended their rights, and angered the Spanish colonists. Rumors now hinted that these colonists, as well as his own men, were rebelling against him. The horse snorted at the thought. His master had taught him better than that.

  But Teresa was only mildly interested. Her hard heart whispered: so her father had returned to the New World. And the sarampión? she asked. How far does the epidemic spread?

  The horse did not know since this was more recent news, after his master had gone sorrowfully mad with grief. I can tell you about other epidemics, the animal offered. I have seen smallpox sweep through Mexico City, killing thousands and burning and disfiguring everyone it touched. Only the Spanish escaped, especially those already pocked.

  Go on, Teresa agreed, happy to keep him talking as they walked along the trail.

  They skirted two villages that day, and she felt more strongly that this was the right thing to do. She remembered the Moor although she did not grieve for him, and she felt disgust at the way they had once traveled, entering and leaving village after village with the large crowds streaming behind. So many people. So much noise, clapping and shouting. Her father had made speeches. He had made the sign of the Cross and the man or woman jumped up healed. She remembered how the Opata children would run toward the healers in anticipation. She remembered the so
und the people had made when the Spanish slavers took their baskets of food and ringed them with horses. This was not the kind of journey she would ever make again.

  Soon she would make a net, Teresa thought. She would learn again to gather berries and the roots of plants, how to trap small animals and hunt bigger game. For now, there were also the abandoned fields of maize, squash, and beans. There were orchards of hard green fruit—not yet good to eat. But soon.

  At one of these orchards, they stopped so that the horse could graze. Let’s stay the night, he said lazily.

  We have hours of daylight, Teresa protested.

  But I like this grass, Horse insisted.

  He nudged her shoulder as if begging, and Teresa was pleased. Already, the horse needed her approval. Very well, she replied. Privately, she thought: tomorrow I will ride you. Tomorrow we will travel far to the north.

  While the horse rested, Teresa experimented with getting fresh meat for her own meal. She waited in a good spot until a young rabbit emerged from its burrow, and then she dropped it with a stone. Surprised at this easy success, and while the animal was still stunned, she slit its throat using a knife she had found in the last village. Triumphant, she did this again when a second young rabbit hopped from the burrow although she knew she could not eat two for supper.

  She hung the second one from a tree near their campfire.

  The attack came when they were both asleep. This was not supposed to happen, for they had agreed they would take turns on guard, something the horse had learned from his master and the master’s captain. To Teresa’s chagrin, she was the one who drifted off, closing her eyes just when dawn was close and the pull of dreams strongest.

  The horse squealed, high-pitched, and Teresa woke, jumped up, and grabbed a stick from the fire they had kept alive all night. A blur of movement nearby! A low deep growl! And the horse lifting his front legs in defense, striking out with his hooves.

  The blur of movement moved away from the horse, closer to Teresa. Instinctively, she waved her stick, which flared newly orange. In the light, she saw the rabbit dangling. She saw the shine of green and yellow eyes, the jaguar’s yellow-white fur also gleaming in the glow of the fire stick, which illumined a pattern of black spots. Teresa had seen the skin of a jaguar in the Governor’s hallway—and earlier, too, in the wise woman’s house—and she knew how the animal would look in the day: a beautiful gold fur covered with rings and circles of black. She stared entranced at the large rounded head, the small ears and powerful jaw.